Suffering in Silence, Book 1: Stolen
by NutsandVolts
Summary: Beetee Jarvis wasn't always the brilliant inventor he is today. Thirty-seven years ago, he was an average boy from District 3 who had the misfortune to be reaped for the 38th Hunger Games. Life as he knows it is forever gone, but along the path to what he believes to be his demise, he finds something more substantial than he's ever known—but he loses it almost instantly.
1. Prologue of Suffering in Silence

**A/N: Greetings, friends, and welcome to the first book in the elaborate _Suffering in Silence _series—_Stolen_, a first-person account of the 38th Annual Hunger Games through the eyes of its male tribute from District 3, Beetee Jarvis. This story is written by NutsandVolts, or "Wendy," and Kassandra Lorelei, or "Kassie." The prologue is in Beetee's POV, but this is Beetee at age fifty-five, after _Mockingjay _and the rest of SIS. :)We hope you enjoy! **

**Hugs,**

**Kassie & Wendy**

* * *

Dear Reader,

Because of recent events in my life, I have been forced to come to terms with my past and accept it for what it is. I can't change it; I can only learn from it. I know that now. For years, I was blinded by my fear, my anger, my guilt, and my shame. I never thought I would feel ashamed or guilty; in my naïveté I believed these to be burdens for others to bear, such as my father or the man who picked my name out of hundreds. When I reminisce about being young, even before the Hunger Games took my already unfavorable life and shattered it to pieces, I can't help but mourn a little for the awkward boy I used to be. But when I'm done mourning for him, I realize that maybe it's better this way. I'm much colder and harder than I'd ever imagined, but not as much as I was in the years shortly after the Games; I've calmed down enough to finally recount what happened in writing. I'm older and wiser than I once was, and much more accepting as well. Only one person's opinion of me still matters, and in her eyes, I've more than redeemed myself for what I've done. She can forgive me even if I can't forgive myself quite yet. I'm unsure if I'll ever be able to forgive myself. But this is irrelevant.

I spent the first thirty-seven years after my Games hiding inside myself and keeping the truth from everyone out of fear of how I'd be judged for it. I believed the events of my Games and afterward to be my business, my burden to bear, but now I want the world to know what really happened, why I did what I did, why I am what I am.

Oh, dig me a well to cry in before I begin, because even after almost four decades I find it excruciatingly difficult to recount some events. I've loved, I've lost, I've betrayed. I thought I was a monster. Now I know I'm just human.

No one really knows who I am. They know of the more important players in this terrible game, such as Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark. I was just an important player, though—I just played on the sidelines, and in the shadows. If this doesn't interest you, by all means, put this down. Walk away if you want to. But once you read what I have to say, once you've lived it through my eyes—and later, through Wiress's eyes—you won't be able to walk away. Believe me; I've tried.

And after you've read what I've had to say, and taken a quick walk through the sunshine to clear your mind of some of the darker events—oh, how I wish it could be that easy for me—I dare you to judge me as harshly as you would have before, or as harshly as I would judge myself.

Signed,

Beetee Janus Jarvis II


	2. Chapter I

"Concentrate," I mutter to myself, "easy does it…"

My hand trembles a little as I melt the wires together, resulting in a small piece of molten metal to form and scald my hand. I recoil and my hand shoots backwards, knocking into the factory floor manager, Keele. He just so happens to be carrying a large tray stacked with computer chips in his arms, which slip from his grasp, scattering a fortune's worth of technology across the concrete.

"Watch what you're doing, Jarvis!" he snarls.

"I'm sorry, sir," I mumble quietly, looking at the floor.

"I can't hear you! Speak up, boy!" Keele barks. "You're seventeen years old, for Panem's sake! How the hell are you going to make it anywhere in life you don't speak up and watch what you're doing?" My face grows warm because I know everyone's staring at me...again. "I pray they have mercy on you at the reaping tomorrow," he continues maliciously. "There's no conceivable way you'd make it past the first day in the Games. Useless boy!"

With his rant-of-the-day over, the tall, extremely menacing man stalks off, calling for someone to come and clean up the mess I caused.

I resume my tedious job, alert as to where I put the iron. The others gather around—including those at nearby workbenches—and stare. This isn't the first time this has happened since I began working at the factory when I was only fifteen, but apparently, it's just as riveting the three hundredth time as it is the first time. I shake my head a little and ignore them.

"Perhaps," says a boy my age by the name of Nio, "the Capitol will have mercy on us this year."

He puts down his soldering iron and runs a hand through his hair, brushing of the dust and ash that comes from working in the factories. He wipes it on the front of his slate gray uniform—the uniform we all have to wear without a single complaint, despite its tendency to cause skin irritations when exposed to heat and chemicals.

"What d'you mean?" asks a voice at the other end of the small, oppressive room. I take a fleeting glance. The speaker has dark, cropped hair and is still working with his wire.

"They could simply take Beetee." Nio grins, wagging his eyebrows like a villain in vaudeville. "Our shipment of undamaged goods would skyrocket, that's for sure."

The occupants of the table snigger, all mocking me as usual, except for one: a girl near the back, who I've never really noticed, with long, dark hair pulled back into a braid. She looks at me and smiles. I remember her name—Lizah. I saw her at school last year, but I've never really spoken to her; she was always been surrounded by a large group of giggling girlfriends, and I've never had the time in the factory. I'm more of a loner, anyway, preferring to spend my time sitting by myself running formulas and ideas through my head.

"Ignore them," she mouths, before dropping her chocolate brown-eyed gaze back to her work. Something starts fluttering in my stomach, not exactly unpleasantly, and I return to my work feeling oddly light.

I silently beg for the bell that signals the end of my eight-hour shift. Nine in the morning to five o'clock in the evening of everyday of my life is spent crouched over a workbench, melting wires together to fill the insides of various devices that will go straight to the Capitol.

In return, I'll be paid a measly sum which can't cover the cost of even a quarter of a loaf of bread, all the while knowing that somewhere out there, a seventeen-year-old boy with the privilege of being born in the Capitol is able to enjoy life: eating whatever he wants without worrying where it came from or where he'll find the money to pay for it, or perhaps relaxing at home, watching President Snow on a television I helped create by making the wires for it. The Capitol turns a blind eye to our suffering—it isn't their own, so why should they care? They've never felt hunger or exhaustion from a hard day's work; work is for the districts.

Someone snaps their fingers in my face, breaking me out of my reverie. I look up, startled, to see Lizah smiling warmly. The fluttering feeling in my stomach becomes more pronounced.

"The bell rang," she says happily. "You can go home now."

"Oh. Right." I look around, observing the emptiness of the pitiful room, decorated with only a large conveyor belt for us workers to put completed chips and wires on, so that they can be transferred from room to room easily, where they will eventually be placed inside electronic devices and sipped to the Capitol. There are few windows, all of which are pathetically small and take in no light whatsoever do to the ash and smoke from the factory chimney. Nobody bothers to clean the windows, though. Or the floors, or the walls, et cetera. The entire room is subsequently bleak and gray.

The sun shines, however, when Lizah smiles at me and turns to leave. I should say something to her but of course I don't.

I stand up, turning away from the room and follow Lizah, desperate to get out of the oppressive little room. I may not be completely free outside of work, but I feel the Capitol has less of a hold on me when I'm not helping to create various electronic gadgets for them.

I take a right, however, when Lizah takes a left. I'm very careful to avoid the Peacekeepers that always stand at rigid attention, obscenely large guns at the ready. They're always waiting, looking for people who may be _thinking _of causing trouble. Remus Freeman, our Head Peacekeeper, is always looking for an excuse to perform a public whipping or execution. This isn't just to show off the power of the Capitol, either. He merely does it for his own sick enjoyment of watching people die—and knowing he can get away with it, too.

As I walk home through the tiny, crowded alleys that pass for streets, I stop to look down the widest road, catching a glimpse of a sectioned-off area known as the Victors' Village. This is where the winners of previous Hunger Games live. They've killed in cold blood and were rewarded for it with houses and enough food to live on. Only two people live there.

I trudge on, determine to get home by nightfall.

Finally, I'm standing in front of my tiny home.

Our house is like the rest of the buildings in District Three—gray, austere and covered in ash that comes from factories. It's, as I've said, very small, with only four proper rooms: a kitchen, a bathroom, and two bedrooms. The front door opens straight into the kitchen and everybody usually sits around the table for relation as well as for meals.

There's a fifth room behind the kitchen, but it's too small to be counted as livable. Comfortable living space or not, it became my bedroom after my younger sister, Mila, was born. At ten years old, it seemed bigger, but now that I'm seventeen, I can walk from one side to the other in three reasonably sized steps. There's barely enough room for a mattress and a few blankets.

I open the front door to find my father at the table, bouncing my giggling seven-year-old sister on his knee. I think she's too old for that, but of course my suggestions are met with only scorn. My mother tends to the fireplace with her back to me.

"Evening," I address absently, brushing the ash off my clothes before sitting down.

"You should have done that outside, boy," Father says gruffly.

_No, "Hello, Beetee, how was your day?" _I think to myself, before wondering why I should start wanting Father to pay attention to me now, considering I've never been given a second glance for the past eight years, ever since Mila came along.

"_I _brushed the ash off my dress outside, didn't I, Papa?" Mila says in a sickeningly sweet voice, her dark eyes dancing with childish joy. Father chuckles and strokes Mila's long dark hair.

"Of course you did, sweetheart," he says softly to her.

"I'm sorry," I say, a little loudly so that Father pays attention. "I forgot."

I really did. I was so caught up thinking about other, more important things than ash on the floor of a house that'll just get covered in it later, anyway.

"Don't answer your father like that, Beetee," Mother snaps, keeping her back to me. I watch her trying to create a flame by scraping two old pieces of flint together, attempting to create enough friction to cause a spark.

Just one spark can do so much—start a fire to warm a family's evening meal in the right situation or burn a factory to the ground in the wrong one. Less friction means less chance of a fire, therefore less chance of a fire or an explosion. That's why machines are always kept well oiled.

I keep quiet from then on, as per usual. There's no point in arguing because I know I can never possibly win. I'm not good enough—Mila, on the other hand, is absolutely perfect, at least in the eyes of our parents.

We sit in silence for the better part of half an hour. Mila refuses to sit in her own seat, so she eats her meal of bread and a small portion of meat on Father's lap. I sigh inwardly at this; Mila needs to act her age. She's seven, not three. Of course, if I mention this, I'll get yelled at. That's the worst possible thing to do in this house: ridicule Mila, the angel-child.

Father looks around at us and breaks the silence.

"Tomorrow's the reaping," he says, running his fingers absently through Mila's thick dark hair. She smiles in a way that says, _Aren't I the cutest thing? _It makes me want to gag.

"It's a good thing we have four more years until we need to worry about Mila, isn't it?" says Mother, looking adoringly at my sister. I roll my eyes and make a small noise of disgust in the back of my throat before turning to look out the small kitchen window. I wipe away the built-up ash to get a clearer view. Outside, the street is empty, as most people working the night shift have already gone home and those that are unfortunate enough to have the night shift are already at the factory.

Tomorrow, however, no one will be there. For that whole day, the factories of District Three will be eerily silent, while a boy and a girl are picked at random to be sent to their certain deaths. Everyone will be gathered in the town square in front of the Justice Building to watch them. Not because they want to, either—the Capitol will _make _them go.

_There's a chance you'll be picked, _a small voice in the back of my head reminds me unkindly. It kind of sounds like Father.

I shudder slightly, not wanting to think about it. Keele is right; I wouldn't last a day in any arena. What can I possibly do—melt wires together into a long cord, tie the ends up, and hope someone will trip over it?

I stand up. "I'm going to bed. Good night."

I slip through the doorway that leads to my small bedroom without waiting for acknowledgement, shutting the door behind me and pulling up my mattress to reveal my hidden stash of wires, batteries, and other electronic items small enough to be smuggled out of the factories under my shirt. My uniform is too large for my slight frame anyway, so I have plenty of room. I only take one or two at a time, nowhere near enough to be noticed, but plenty to be executed for.

I pull out a completed circuit that I made, with a battery, a switch, and a small light bulb on one end. I flick the switch and the light bulb greets me by glowing brightly. It's not very efficient, but as my room is at the back of the house and doesn't get much light—not that the other rooms do—I had to improvise.

I work well into the night, using batteries to connect the wires to small motors and bulbs. At the factory, I can never work properly because of all of the people around me, but in the safety of my own room, I can be as creative as I wish.

I hear my parents and sister retire, but I keep working, stopping only to push my glasses back into place.

I only stop when Father comes in, yelling at me to stop all the racket I'm making and go to sleep already. "Your sister needs her rest!" he shouts.

I oblige and Father leaves, slamming the door in such a way that makes a much louder noise than the slight hum the motors were making.

I lie back on my bed, unable to sleep as the hours before the reaping tick by.

* * *

The town square bustles with activity on the day of the reaping, as it always does. The Peacekeepers force those of age into lines. I take my place in the seventeen-year-olds' section and look toward the huge stage, set up with several chairs—one of which is taken by the mayor of District Three. Two more people exit the Justice Building and sit down on either side of him—the Victors. Violette, the woman, has short, dark hair pulled away from her sharp face in a ponytail. She's actually kind of tall for someone from District Three—she's at least five foot seven, which is almost three inches taller than me. She won the Hunger Games just two years ago, with the help of a nonexistent conscience and a large machete. The man, Bartemius, won years ago in the 17th Games. He doesn't pay attention to anyone, staring at his hands clasped in his lap. I think he's muttering to himself.

After them comes a tall man of indiscriminate age—it's hard to tell under his powdered face. He has a shock of white blonde hair, highlighted in a deep green, which looks like a reaction when copper sulfate burns. Delicate emerald swirls are painted around his eyes—when he blinks, I notice his eyelids have been painted in a reflective moss green substance that glitters when it hits the light. His suit is a lighter green, contrasting greatly with the grayness of the Justice Building. He half-skips to the microphone, giving it a tap to make sure it's on.

"Good morning, everyone!" he chirps. "Welcome to the reaping for 38th Annual Hunger Games!"

We stare at him. We never applaud when the escort welcomes us. He continues, unfazed by the lack of enthusiasm.

"Now, a few of you might have noticed that I am slightly new here." He nods at us as though he's talking to a class of small children.

"No kidding," mutters someone in front of me.

"My name is Julius Trumann. Unfortunately, your former escort, Helene Marks, cannot report for duty." He smiles at all of us.

"I wonder if the executed her or if Snow made it look like an accident?" another voice whispers.

"So, this means that I am your _new _escort!" he finishes happily.

We continue to stare at him dully. He continues to ignore us. He gestures dramatically to the huge glass bowls on either side of him, filled with names ready to be chosen.

"Now, I know you gentlemen will be positively _itching _to get into some fights and impress the ladies," he says, wagging his eyebrows—a lot of people snicker at this—"but you'll have to wait your turn." He turns toward the bowl containing the girls' names. Julius digs around for almost two minutes while the girls wait with bated breath. Finally, he pulls out a name and holds it up triumphantly. He leans toward the microphone and reads the name out loud:

"Lizah Pollard!"

I take a slight step backwards to keep myself from collapsing. Lizah, who was always so kind to me, is going to either kill or be killed. I hear someone—probably Nio—whisper, "I guess she regrets being so nice to Beetee now." Some more people snicker and I clench my teeth.

Lizah staggers out of her line, barely succeeding in keeping a straight face. As she passes me, I swear I hear her whimpering—she's that afraid. She ascends the steps and walks shakily to Julius, stopping when she reaches him. Julius pats her shoulder.

He pulls out a name from the boys' bowl and my heart starts pounding in my head. I cross my fingers like a superstitious child and my palms are clammy and sweaty.

Finally, Julius read out the name:

"Beetee Jarvis!"

I don't remember the journey from my line to the stage. My mind runs on autopilot—_walk and don't trip over_. I regain my senses, however, when Julius tells me to shake hands with Lizah.

As I did, I look into her eyes—chocolate brown and terrified. I try to tell her that we'll be fine, but I can't speak, and I know that that's a lie anyway.

Shortly afterwards, we're bundled into the Justice Building to say goodbye to our families. I sat on my room in a small room while the Peacekeepers find my parents and sister. They give us an hour while they stand outside the door.

We spend almost five minutes just staring at each other, but suddenly, Father says urgently, "You have to win—you can't deprive an innocent little girl of her family!"

He picks up Mila and she tucks her face into the hollow of his neck. Mother lays a hand on his shoulder.

"You're father's right, Beetee," she says. "What kind of example would you set if you lost? Though, it's almost completely inevitable—you've never been good at really anything. How long could you possibly last—a day or two?"

I begin to shake with rage. They don't love me—they never had. They think me useless—the imperfect first-born son who likes to play with electricity but isn't really good at it—or anything, for that matter.

Suddenly, I realize I'm sick of it. I stand to my feet.

"Shut up!" I scream at them. They seem as surprised as I am about the authoritative tone my voice takes—after seventeen years of submission, I'm finally done with it—with them.

"I've had enough of the pair of you," I say to my parents furiously. "All my life—no, ever since Mila was born—I've never been good enough for _anyone_, not even my _own parents_! I've been cast aside by the people who are _supposed _to love me unconditionally. I used to try to get your attention, but those days are long passed. It doesn't matter what _I _do—Mila always comes first. Even when I'm about to die, it's all about how it affects _Mila_! You've never loved me. You tolerated me because you had to. But I'm not tolerating you anymore!"

I open the door and motion for the Peacekeepers to stand aside. I turn back to my parents.

"We're done. Take your daughter home and save your _try to win _speeches for when _she's _picked to look death in the face."

Mother leaves instantly, but Mila wiggles out of Father's arms and stands in front of me, four feet two inches of pure fury.

"I hope you die," she says angrily, looking up at me. "I hope someone guts you like a fish! I hope you feel all that pain and realize that you're stupid and nobody likes you! I wish you were _never born_!"

Mila continues screaming at me, even when Father picks her up and carries her out of the room. I slam the door shut and lean against it, letting myself slide to the floor. I congratulate myself for finally standing up for myself for the first time in seventeen years, but I also repeat the same information over and over again in my head, trying to make it sink in:

_My name is Beetee Jarvis. I am seventeen years old. I am from a country called Panem. I live in District 3. I have just disowned my parents and sister. I am a tribute in the 38__th__ Hunger Games. There is a chance that I will die._

* * *

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**Hugs,**

**Kassie & Wendy**


	3. Chapter II

Boarding the train that will take Lizah and me to the Capitol sets our grisly reality in stone. This is the last time we'll ever see our home, our families—that, for obvious reasons, upsets Lizah much more than me—and our lives simply vanish into the smoke as we leave for the Capitol.

Julius tells Lizah and me where we'll sleep tonight, tells us that we can watch the reapings from the other districts on TV tomorrow, before scurrying off to his own room.

_Oh, good_, I think to myself irritably.

Lizah wraps her arms around her stomach as if she's holding herself together and hangs her head, turning away from me and walking down the corridor to her room. I should try to comfort her, but I don't.

I find my room quickly, close the door behind me, and strip down to my underclothes since didn't think to bring anything to sleep in—not that I'll get much sleep anyway. I cross the room, unaccustomed to how large it is, and climb into the unfamiliar bed, pulling off my glasses in the process and resting them on the bedside table. I close my eyes—maybe if I sleep, I'll wake up and discover the reaping hasn't happened yet…

* * *

Something brushes against my arms, yanking me out of my nightmare with a real scream in my throat. Someone claps their hand over my mouth. My eyes grow wide with fear and I grope the bedside table blindly for my glasses. I find them and put them on, but they don't help me see in the near darkness. The only light is that from the moon streaming in through the blinds.

I squint, trying to make out my captor. The person is a woman—no, a girl. I can't see her face too well but I can see the outline of a long braid draping over her shoulder.

She moves her hand and I ask, "Lizah, what are you doing here?"

"I...I got scared," she says, a little embarrassed. "I had a nightmare and I woke up all alone, so I came here." She narrows her eyes, trying to see in the darkness. "Can you turn on the lamp?"

I'm glad she can't see my face because I'm blushing. "No…"

"Why not?" she asks suspiciously.

"I, uh...I'm...not dressed?"

Lizah slides back to the very edge of the bed. "Beetee, that's gross!"

"No! I'm not naked, Lizah! I'm just not dressed, is all."

The shadow at the other end of the bed disappears and I hear a thud, followed by Lizah yelping, "Ouch!"

I scoot over to the edge where Lizah was, trying to find her. "Lizah, are you all right? Did you fall off the bed?"

"No," says Lizah sarcastically, "I flew into the air and hit my head on the ceiling!"

I grimace. How could I be such an idiot? "That was kind of stupid, I'm sorry."

Lizah climbs back onto the bed, though she sits on top of the blanket this time. "It's okay," she says.

We sit in a somewhat awkward silence. I say, "So...why are you here?"

"Oh," says Lizah. "Right. I, um...had a nightmare...and I woke up and was scared because I was all alone?"

Her uncertainty makes her sentence a question. I see her braid move from side to side, so I assume she's shaking her head. "This is stupid."

She slides off the bed, landing on her feet this time, and strides over to the door. "I'm sorry I woke you up," she says.

She slides open the door and I get out of bed and run over to her. I stand in front of the door with my arms apart, blocking her path.

"Don't leave," I say anxiously. It's strange, because suddenly, when I was perfectly fine with being alone just five minutes ago, now the idea of her leaving is unbearable.

"Okay," she says. Lizah tries to make her voice sound confused but I can tell she's relieved.

I move out of the doorway and Lizah shuts the door again, crossing the room and sitting the floor in front of the bed. I look at her quizzically.

"You can sit on the bed, you know," I say.

"I know," she murmurs, as if deep in thought.

I cross the room and sit on the floor next to her. "What was your nightmare about?"

Our shoulders are touching, so I feel her shudder. "I don't want to talk about it," she whispers. I timidly take her hand and decide it's a good thing that she doesn't pull away.

I lean my head back against the bed and we just sit like that for a while.

After maybe ten minutes Lizah says, "Can I sleep here?"

I smile a little. "I thought that was already established."

She continues as if I hadn't spoken. "Back home, I sleep in the same bed as my sister, Arleen—she's twenty. She's always there if I have nightmares and waking up on my own was really scary. That's why I came here."

"That's more than what my sister does," I can't help muttering to myself.

"You don't really like Mila, do you?"

I stop short. "How do you know her name?"

She rolls her eyes. "I heard you yelling at your parents about her."

"You heard that?" I ask, embarrassed.

"Beetee, I'll be surprised District Twelve didn't hear you. When you're quiet, you're quiet, but damn!" she says, a little loudly; I jump and she grins. "When you're loud, you sure are loud."

I smile. "Thanks, I think."

"You're welcome."

"Arleen and I kind of have this...bond, which comes from us working together just to get by. My mother died giving birth to me, so Arleen's all I've had, along with Father. We were okay until I was eleven—there was a factory explosion, do you remember? My father didn't die, but he lost his right arm, and since he's right-handed –"

"Or was," I mutter. Lizah smiles a little.

"Well, yeah, but since he wasn't left-handed, there wasn't much he could do. So they fired him. Arleen—she was fifteen at the time—was already working a part-time shift at the factory from three o'clock to six o'clock, since she had school, but after Father's accident she dropped out of school to work a full shift. The Capitol wasn't too happy about that," she adds bitterly, "but since she was still under their thumb, they let it slide. She also started taking out tesserae, which Father disapproved of. But Arleen didn't really have a choice. We needed the food, and the oil. Arleen took out as much as she could, but we still couldn't get by. No one said it, but it was easier when I turned twelve and could take out tesserae, too. Arleen and Father tried to convince me to only take out a little bit, but I took out as much as twelve-year-olds were allowed to. I even thought about saying I was fourteen instead of twelve so I could take out more, but Arleen said if I was found out—and I would be, eventually—I'd be executed.

"So Arleen worked full-time at the factory from nine to five, and I worked from three to six, and we took out as much tesserae as the Peacekeepers would allow, but we still couldn't get by. There was at least one night a week where we didn't have anything to eat for dinner, but usually two or three.

"Father said that he didn't want us to take out so much tesserae, because he was terrified one of us would get chosen for the Hunger Games. He couldn't bear to lose either one of us, he said. But we were already half-starving—if we withdrew any of it, we'd die in a few months from starvation.

"Three years ago," Lizah says, "Arleen actually got picked for the Hunger Games. It wasn't much of a surprise, because her name was entered almost forty times. But one of Arleen's friends, Margo Stringwald, volunteered for her. I don't know if you saw that Games, but Arleen and I had to watch. Margo was killed in the bloodbath by one of the Careers—they stabbed her in the stomach almost fifty times."

Lizah takes a breath, and I know she's reliving all of this as she tells me.

"Things should have gotten better," she says, "when Violette won the Games the next year, since everyone got more food and oil and medicine. But Arleen wasn't working anymore. She was clinically depressed, or at least I thought so. She wouldn't eat even when we had the food. I was terrified that she'd just die. She felt as if Margo's death was her fault, because Margo volunteered for her. Of course Father and I kept telling her that it wasn't her fault, but she wouldn't listen. The Peacekeepers stopped giving us the extra food and stuff because Arleen wouldn't go to work. I told them she couldn't because she was ill, but they just ignored me.

"I decided not to go to school when the new school year started. We couldn't afford it; by this time, we weren't eating almost five days a week and Arleen needed help. I started working a full-time shift at the factory. Father and I started selling some of our things, but they were the same things that every family in District Three had, so they didn't sell for much. Even with the extra money, we didn't have anywhere close to enough. I tried to convince Arleen to work again, but by this time she wouldn't talk to us. She was alive, but she wasn't really. Part of her seemed to die with Margo, except instead of her killer being a Career, it was the crushing guilt."

Lizah swallows over a lump in her throat. She looks as if she doesn't want to go on, but she has to get it off her chest. She gulps, but I can tell her throat is dry.

"About three months after I dropped out of school," she says hoarsely, "I just cried for almost an hour at work, right over the workbench. I didn't want to do it anymore—I wanted to be free, I hated the Capitol, and I just wanted everything to be the way it was before the factory explosion. Keele took pity on me and pulled me aside. He asked me what was wrong, and for some reason, I told him everything. I shouldn't have told him," Lizah says angrily. "I should have told him to mind his own business, but I had no one to talk to, so I just spilled everything. Keele said he knew how I could get more money. He told me to go to Remus Freeman after work. He'd get me more money, he said. I was confused, but I obliged. I was so desperate I'd do anything. "I went to Freeman's house, but he told me to leave and not to come back until nine o'clock. I felt suspicious, but I needed the money. I waited and came back at nine o'clock, and this time he let me in."

She inhales roughly and sighs. "I told him Keele had sent me because of my situation. I told him that I needed money and that I was told he could give it to me. He said yes, he could get me what I needed, but I'd have to do something for him. And if I did exactly what he said, I'd be paid for it. I obliged; I had no clue what I was getting into. And by the time I understood, it was too late. I needed the money, Freeman named his price, and I could give him exactly what he wanted. In the end, I did."

I already know the answer, but I ask, "What did he make you do, Lizah?"

Lizah closes her eyes and leans her head back. When she opens her eyes again they sparkle with tears. She brings her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around them. She rests her chin on her knees and says quietly, "He made me have sex with him."

I let go of her hand wrap my arm around her shoulders. Lizah shakes with sobs but continues anyway; I don't think she can stop.

"He was brutal," she says, trembling. "I still can't believe some of the things I let him do to me. None of it felt good and a lot of it hurt, but I didn't say a word because the price he'd pay was enough for my family to eat for...well, a while. I'd also be able to get some of the medication I knew Arleen needed.

"We didn't sleep at all. He made me keep at it until four o'clock in the morning. I got dressed when he said I could go and asked for the money. Freeman left and came back with only a fraction of what he agreed to pay me.

"I asked where the rest of the money was. He just laughed and said that it wasn't a one-time deal—what, was I stupid or something? He said he'd pay me that much each day for a month, granted I come to his house every night. I said no. I told him that we had a deal. Freeman grinned and said something like, 'Deals mean less that nothing here, sweetheart.' I said that wasn't fair, and he asked who I'd tell on him to. The Capitol? I realized I had no way out. I needed the money desperately, and Freeman would only give it to me if I paid his sick price. I agreed."

Lizah sighs. She leans her head against my shoulder. "I think Father suspected what I was doing to get all the extra money, but he didn't say anything. Of course, Arleen was so ill she didn't notice anything different, so for the next month I was a slave to the Capitol by day and a slave to Remus Freeman by night.

"Finally, the month passed, and I came that last night only to tell him that I was done. I'd paid his real price and there was nothing he could do to stop me from never coming back. He grudgingly obliged, and I was free—but not really. I still had the memories of thirty horrible nights where I was subjected to...so much degradation I can't even describe it without crying. All for some food and medication that didn't work! Arleen still wasn't getting better. And she still wouldn't eat. I was so worried about her—about her, about Father, and about myself, too. I felt filthy. I was filthy. There were some nights where I didn't sleep, I just laid there and thought, 'maybe the world would be better if I just died?' and then I couldn't screw up so much. Then I felt guilty, because Father needed one of us, and Arleen was going to die soon—I just sensed it. One night, I whispered everything that I had done while she slept. I knew she couldn't hear me but I needed her to go to her grave knowing—even subconsciously—that I loved her and what I'd done to keep her alive. I was in tears by the time I was done, and I sat up, and so did she. I was surprised but couldn't stop crying. Arleen just held me and told me it'd be okay. I asked if she would be okay, and she said that I wasn't the only one with secret sins. I asked her what she meant by that.

"'Lizah,' she said, 'I'm ashamed of it, but do you know why I haven't been there for you for the past few months?'

"'Yes,' I said, 'Margo died. You saw her die and you feel guilty.'

"She shook her head. 'There's that,' she said, 'but since you told me everything, I'll do the same.'

"I can't remember the whole conversation, but Arleen and Margo were really close. Really, really close. Do you know what I mean, Beetee?"

I take a guess. "They were best friends?"

Lizah sighs. "No, not exactly friends," she says. "They were in love."

I stare at her. "They were both girls."

"I know."

Silence.

"So," Lizah says finally, "Arleen was in love with Margo, and Margo was in love with Arleen, but they couldn't be together because it was gay love and the Capitol's really against that, I discovered. It's funny," she says with a sour laugh, "considering Julius."

"What do you mean?"

"He obviously likes men," she says.

I stare at her. "Okay...?"

Lizah stares back.

I think she expected a different reaction. "Um...is that weird? That he likes men? I guess I like men, too, except for the ones who don't like me. Of course, that's pretty much all of them, but...what?" I ask, because Lizah backed away and is now about ten feet away from me. "What's wrong?"

"You're gay?"

My cheeks become fiery red and I almost shout, "No! I didn't know that's what you meant!"

Lizah starts to laugh, amused by my panicked outburst.

"I'm not gay," I say quickly, strangely desperate for her to know this. "I do not like men. Or boys. I like women. Women. Girls."

"Good," says Lizah, relieved.

I look at Lizah. She's looking at me, too—her chocolate eyes sparkle with laughter, whereas only a half an hour ago they sparkled with tears. I feel strangely pleased that it was me that made her happier.

Lizah stands up and yawns. "All this confession stuff has made me tired," she says, stretching.

I stand up too. "Can I ask you something?"

"What?"

I hesitate. "Um...well, I…"

"What?" she asks again with a slight laugh.

"Why are you so happy all the time?" I ask abruptly.

Lizah stares at me for a moment, blinking. "What do you mean?" she asks, cocking her head.

"Well...so much has happened to you. You should be miserable, but you're always smiling and happy. How?"

Lizah smiles. "Because," she says, tapping the tip of my nose with her index finger, "I see the bright side in things, dear Beetee."

She spins like a ballet dancer and strikes a pose, laughing. I watch her curiously and she grins.

Suddenly, she yawns again and throws herself onto the bed, getting under the blanket and curling into a little ball. I stare at her.

Lizah sits up. "Are you going to stand up all night, or are you going to sleep? We've got a load of crap to deal with tomorrow—you need your rest."

I sigh. Unfortunately, she's right.

* * *

Lizah's gone by the time I wake up—not that I expected anything different.

I sit up slowly and find my glasses, putting them on my face and blinking at the sudden clarity. I look around the room and see a folded piece of paper to my right. I pick it up and read the front:

_To: Beetee_

_From: Lizah—who else?_

Curious, I open the paper and read the note inside—well, more a letter than a note.

_Dear Beetee,_

_I couldn't really say this last night because I was tired and you were tired, plus it would've been kind of awkward, but thank you. This is the part where you say, "What for?" So I'll tell you._

_Thank you for just listening to me. After I dropped out of school none of those "friends" I was with talked to me anymore, I don't know why, but they didn't and I've had no friends except for Arleen and Father. No one else has listened to me like you did, but you're different than any boy—no, anyONE– I know. So for that I thank you. Even when we worked in the factory, I counted you as my friend because you were so kind—well, we never spoke because you're so shy, but you didn't tease me or hit on me like the other guys did. And when I told Keele off for putting me in the situation he put me in, he spread the rumor that I was a prostitute. But you didn't believe it—you believed me. So thank you__—again. _

_Lizah_

I read and reread this several times until I could grasp its meaning. Lizah's my friend? No—Lizah counts me as her friend? I didn't know that. I lie back in bed and close my eyes. I remember I have to watch the other districts' reapings today. And I have to take part in the chariot-parade-thing. I pick up Lizah's note again and read it, imagining her smiling and writing these words. It makes me feel nice - happier than I have been in a long time. I fall out of bed (literally) and get dressed in what I wore yesterday. I'm not going near what the Capitol has for me to wear. Ugh. I hate their colorful fabrics and over-embellished get-up...it's so...unlike me, so false.

When I'm dressed and semi-clean (as clean as someone from District 3 can be—I swear I have ash imbedded in my skin) I walk back to the bed and pick up Lizah's note again. Then I search through my pockets, finding what I'm looking for in only a second—about ten inches of wire. I fold Lizah's note until only about one-inch-by-one-inch and poke a hole in it with one sharp end of the wire. I tie the wire with her note hung on it around my neck and tuck it under my shirt, smiling to myself for no reason at all.


	4. Chapter III

Breakfast isn't anywhere near as quiet as I hoped it would be. Everyone sits around a large table, with platefuls of every kind of food imaginable laid out before us. The only person who feels like eating is Julius. He's also the main reason breakfast isn't quiet—he insists on talking to everyone about everything under the sun. Today he's wearing all blue—ultramarine suit, turquoise waistcoat, and hair the color of the sky—the sky outside District 3, anyway. His cheerfulness is putting everyone in a sour mood; even Lizah, with her perpetual smile, picks at her food, probably due to nerves. Every rumble of the train takes Lizah and me closer to our eventual deaths.

"You're just going to _love _the Capitol," says Julius excitedly, bouncing up and down in his seat like a child. I stare at him, hoping my face reflects the horror and anger I feel. Either he doesn't read my expression or he chooses not to, because he continues, "I can feel it. You'll absolutely _adore _it: so many nice clothes, all the food you could ever want, plus being waited on hand and foot...I bet you've never _seen _such nice things! Compared to the Capitol, District Three is probably the blandest place in Panem! I don't know _how _you people stand it."

Violette glares at him furiously.

"Most of us have never been anywhere else," she snaps, throwing down the fork she was prodding her meal with. Even she didn't feel like eating.

Julius regards her with a mixture of shock and contempt. "Well, I'm sorry for imagining that you might like a little finery in your lives after being stuck in factories for most of them!"

Violette rises from her seat. "Keep talking that way about our lives and you might not have much of yours!"

Julius stands up angrily and is about to speak when Lizah interrupts.

"Stop it, both of you!" she shouts, rising between them. "This will get us nowhere!"

"Apart from our graves," I mutter, staring at my plate. Nobody pays attention, though, as per usual. Lizah rants at our mentor and our escort, demanding they apologize to each other. I honestly don't think Violette has anything to apologize for—Julius, however, should be pushed off a cliff, and I'd love to be the one to push him.

They both apologize, albeit icily, refusing to look at each other. Julius turns away and folds his arms like a sulking child. Violette goes back to her plate and violently stabs at her food, no doubt imagining Julius's face as she does.

After a few more minutes of moody silence, Julius takes us into another carriage. This room is filled mostly by a large, comfortable sofa facing a television screen. Julius makes us all sit down to watch the reapings from the other districts.

I watch in dread as I observe the other tributes. A lot of them—especially the Careers—are tall and powerful looking. The boy from District One is fittingly named Golden. He's tall, blue-eyed, with blonde hair that almost blinds everyone in the sunlight. He gives a triumphant cheer when his name is announced, basking in the praise of his fellow men and the swooning of women as he passes them with a perfect white smile, oozing the confidence of someone who knows he'll win. I glance at Lizah—she stares at the screen intensely, mouthing words to herself. I can't tell what they are and I don't want to interrupt.

Golden's district partner, Selene, is calmer and much colder about the whole affair. She passes through the crowds imperiously, without even a hint of a smile on her face, flicking her long, midnight black hair out of her eyes as she does.

They stand at least a foot taller than their escort, a small, excitable woman dressed head to toe in bright orange. They look like gods among mortals. Soon, they'll be assassins among contracts.

It only gets worse as the tape keeps rolling. The tributes of District Two are a brother and sister duo named Maxi—yes, that's his real name; given other circumstances, I'd find it hilarious—and Tania. Both look capable of snapping necks with their bare hands and their cold, dark green eyes portray no fear. Lizah closes her eyes, and when I look from her to the screen I discover why—our own reaping is being played.

"Can we skip this one?" I ask quietly, but of course we can't.

I can hardly watch. The Julius on the screen calls out Lizah's name. She passes through the crowd fearfully, just as I had seen yesterday. Then the Julius on the screen calls my own name.

Lizah stands up suddenly and leaves the room. The mentors, Julius, and I all watch her leave, confused. But Julius just shakes his head and turns his attention back to the screen. I do the same, yet I'm unable to take my mind off Lizah.

After a minute I look back at the screen. The District Four reaping ends and the rest of the reapings roll by. They, unlike the menacing killing machines of One, Two, and Four, display some sort of fear or another. At least two of the tributes are under the age of fifteen. These districts don't see being reaped as some form of honor—for them, as it is for me, it's a death sentence. After the District Twelve reaping concludes and the tape ends, Julius turns off the television. Then he looks at me.

"Will you go find Lizah?" he asks impatiently.

I leave the room quickly and find Lizah sitting on her knees in the cramped space between the two train carriages.

"What are you doing here?" I ask.

She gets to her feet and leaves with no explanation. I stare after her, then go back to the other room.

"Right," says Julius when we reenter, "any questions?"  
No one speaks. Then we see that we're nearing the Capitol, its glittering buildings coming closer. I look at Lizah, who's sitting on the sofa again, staring out the window toward the horizon on the mountains, behind the buildings. I wonder what she's thinking of. She's probably wishing she were far away from here, beyond those mountains. I can't say I blame her.

We pull into a station crammed with Capitol people all chattering excitedly. We file out of the train onto the platform. The brash colors of their clothes nauseate me and their harsh, screechy voices are so awful I put my hands over my ears. Julius glares at me and I glare right back, daring him to tell me to stop.

Predictably, no one seems impressed by either Lizah or me. We'll be a good show—a nice, gory death. We'll most likely be killed by the Careers.

"Not very tall, are they?" one woman sneers. I close my eyes, trying to tune her out. It doesn't work. "Look at the boy! I've got more muscle in one hand than he has in his whole body!"

Violette pushes us through the crowd, grumbling irritably under her breath about people gawking at us.

We're taken immediately to separate rooms to meet our stylists.

"They'll make you look _stunning_!" Julius tells us. Violette just stares straight ahead. Bartemius, at least, is smiling. It'd make me feel better if he was facing the right direction instead of staring at the wall.

I'm handed over to a design team made up of two men and a woman, who force me into a chair. They discuss me as if I'm diseased, oblivious to the fact that I can hear every stinging word.

"I don't know how much we can do! I'm not a _miracle worker_, Andrea!" one the men complains. He's dressed completely in white. Even his black hair has white highlights in it and he's so pale that if there was fog, you could lose him for hours. He looks so..._clean_. He'd be repulsed by the ash and dust of District 3. I'm glad about this—I don't want this man coming anywhere near where I live.

Or where I used to live, anyway.

"Wash him down, Gaius, and then we'll cut his hair and take him to Bryony. She can handle him; she's seen worse."

_Worse? Oh, thank you very much. You're all _so _kind_, I think to myself sarcastically. They take me to another room, shutting the door behind me.

Someone takes my glasses. I close my eyes since I won't be able to see anything anyway.

I'm bathed all over, and I bite my tongue to stop myself from complaining—or worse. I do not want them in the room with me; I'm perfectly capable of washing myself and I have more than one objection about three complete strangers seeing me naked. Yet they treat me as if I can't clean myself—or, at least, as if I can't do it properly.

"How much ash does District Three have?" Gaius scrubs hard at my arm with a sponge that feels like it's made of broken glass. "You're practically made of the stuff!"

I don't answer him. Instead, I sit in total silence, wishing I was anywhere in Panem—no, anywhere in the _world—_but here.

_Lizah has it worse_, I think. _Imagine how she feels right now, given what's happened to her._

The other man, Marius, watches me uninterestedly, waiting for his role. He's supposed to cut my hair.

When it's his turn, however, I refuse to let it be cut too short. If I'm going to die—and I am, probably—I'm going to die looking like myself. End of story.

Marius shrugs indifferently. "Suit yourself. I guess you don't want to look stylish."

I've had it. "You can take that lovely suggestion and shove it up your –"

Marius claps his hand over my mouth, glaring at me. I glare right back, seriously contemplating whether or not to bite his hand. With his free hand he yanks me to my feet. Andre comes back in, takes my hand—freeing me from Marius's grip—and takes me to my stylist, Bryony.

Bryony is medium height, willowy, and exotic. Her hair is pulled into two high ponytails, which are streaked with different colors of the rainbow. Her clothes and makeup reflect her hair—many bright colors all at once, all of them matching, all of them giving me a headache. In an effort to reducing the throbbing pain I look towards the wall.

Bryony looks me over, clicking her tongue, tapping her chin thoughtfully.

"Not bad, I suppose…" She pauses and then snaps her fingers sharply, increasing the pain in my head. "I know what we can do!"

She dresses me in black underclothes, which she says are designed to stop the outer layer from pinching my skin.

_Good to know your looking out for me, Bryony_, I think sarcastically.

Bryony puts a layer of metal mesh, like chain mail, on top of me, then ties a strip of black material round it to use as a kind of belt—kind of like the most _uncomfortable tunic ever made_. It comes down to my knees (though that might not be intentional) and makes moving pretty much impossible. It digs into my sides when I turn, but at least I can move my arms.

I leave the room and see Lizah leaving hers. She's dressed in the same material as me, except hers forms a dress that hangs to the middle of her shins. The material used for a belt on my costume becomes a sash on hers, draping over her bare shoulder. Her hair is tied up with the exception of a few strands hanging loose. I gulp, though I have no idea why.

"You...you look beautiful, Lizah," I stammer, looking at my feet.

She grins, which makes me pleased that she's happy again, though it strangely wasn't the reaction I was hoping for.

"Thanks." She looks me over. "You don't look too bad yourself."

We head for the line of chariots, ours being near the front, unfortunately. We pass many weird costumes on the way, each one representing what the district makes for the Capitol. This is why the golden cow horns protruding from the heads of the District 10 workers make sense—District 10 is livestock.

However, I can't explain why District 1's tributes—Golden and Selene—are dressed from head to toe in billowing white robes, or why District 2—Maxi and Tania—wear shining silver armor. I know District 2 provides the majority of the Peacekeepers, but their official profession is masonry—not that I know what that is.

We climb into our chariot, or at least we try; the mesh refuses to let up. With some very awkward maneuvering Lizah and I are in the chariot; I have to face forward so that nothing digs in. Lizah suddenly takes my hand, which makes me freeze. I'm too shocked to pull it away.

"Good luck, Beetee," she murmurs.

I grip her hand and close my eyes. The gray horses pulling the chariot start to move.

"Good luck, Lizah," I whisper back.


	5. Chapter IV

The chariot ride is as expected—very loud and very bright. I don't remember President Snow's speech—the colours, the lights and noise blinded and deafened me too much. Even back in the Capitol building my ears ring, and when I blink, dark specks dance in front of my eyes. Blood pounds in my head—all I want is to sleep, even though it's only six o'clock in the evening.

I have to keep one of my hands on the wall to keep from falling as I stumble down the unfamiliar corridor to my room. Once there, I strip out of my costume and run to the bathroom, where I fall to my knees in front of the toilet and throw up violently.

I groan and clumsily push the lever that flushes the toilet. I struggle to my feet and lean over the sink, turning on the cold water. I yank my undershirt off, then cup my hands under the faucet; icy water fills my palms and I slap it onto the back of my neck. It runs in tiny rivers over the prominent bones of my spine, which somehow calms my frazzled nerves and soothes my pounding skull.

_You're losing it, Jarvis_, I can't help but think.

I open my eyes study my reflection in the mirror. My face is too pale, even for me. My eyes are like bullet holes with violet shadows underneath them, enlarged by my wire-frame glasses. I'm much too thin—I can easily count my ribs. I moan and lean against the opposite wall. I fall to my knees again and just curl into a ball. Sleep. Sleep is what I need...

* * *

_Knock! Knock! Knock!_

I clench my teeth. Can't a guy sleep on his bathroom floor in peace? On second thought, don't answer that.

"Go away!" I yell.

"Beetee, please let me in!" a female voice shouts back anxiously.

Lizah. My heart picks up speed and I sit up; my cheek feels cold from the tiled floor.

"Can I please come in?" Lizah asks again.

"Hold on a minute!" I shout, but my throat feels dry. I pull my undershirt back on and brush my teeth—the vomit taste in my mouth is making me sick.

This bit of irony is brought to you by Beetee Jarvis. Don't say _thank you_, because you're not welcome.

I run back into the bedroom and pull my clothes back on. Then I answer the door; Lizah immediately steps into the room and brushes my hair back, putting her hand on my forehead. Her touch makes me shiver slightly, though I have no idea why.

"You look sick," she says anxiously.

"I probably am," I admit, "though I've never been sick a day in my life, it'd be just like me to get sick now."

Lizah smiles a little and moves her hand from my forehead to caress my cheek; something glows in her eyes, but I can't tell what it is. I wish I could.

"You're so cynical," she says.

I just shrug, unable to tell if being cynical is a good thing or a bad thing in her eyes.

"What...were you doing?"

"Sleeping," I answer uncomfortably.

"In your bathroom?" she grins mischievously.

"How'd you know?" I ask. The back of my neck feels hot.

"I'm a good guesser," she says, still smiling.

Lizah sits on my bed and I sit beside her. "What's wrong?" I ask.

"Nothing," she says airily, but her façade crumbles; tears fill her eyes and she bows her head.

"No, that's a lie. Everything is wrong. I feel like I've betrayed myself."

"How?"

"During the chariot ride..." she sniffs and says, "I acted like someone I'm not. I'm never going to do that again."

I can't help but smile at her.

Lizah stands up suddenly and says, "What's your name?"

"What?" I ask incredulously.

"What's your name?" she repeats.

"Lizah you know my name—"

"Tell me."

"Beetee?"

"Say it again."

"Beetee," I repeat, "Lizah, why are you being so enigmatic?"

"Spell it," Lizah says fiercely.

"E-N-I—"

"No, your name!" Lizah says in exasperation.

"B-E-E-T-E-E," I spell, a little frightened.

"What do those letters mean?" she asks.

"I don't know!" I say, frustrated.

"Exactly! How can we go our whole lives being defined by a pile of useless letters?" Lizah looks determined, and a little crazy.

"How long have you been Miss Philosophy?" I challenge, annoyed by her ever-changing personality.

"I'm just saying—"

"Look, Lizah, I'm sorry, but maybe you should go—"

Lizah drowns out my words by kissing me on the mouth, not exactly gently. Her fingers tangle in my hair, but just as quickly as she started, she stops with a gasp. My eyes widen as I stare at her, my district partner, Lizah Pollard, who I thought I knew better than anyone.

"What the hell was that for?" I shout. I'm panicking—half of me wants to shove her out the window, yet the other half really wants her to kiss me again; this is the half that scares me.

"I don't know!" Lizah wails; she seems as surprised and panicked as me, "I really don't know. I'm sorry..."

"Why must you be so...so...?" I can't find the word I'm looking for.

"So what?" she asks, half timid, half defiant.

"Bipolar!" I shout. "You're always changing!"

"Well, I'm sorry to burst your bubble, but people change, Beetee!"

"Not every five minutes!"

"Then I guess I'm different!" she shouts back heatedly.

"You're just _weird_!"

For some reason unbeknownst to me, she kisses me again, and for some other reason I don't stop her. I put my hands on her hips and kiss her back; after a couple of minutes, she breaks away from me again. Her eyes burn, yet she looks terrified. I remember last night with a jolt; everything Remus Freeman did to her...and now...

I should be ashamed of myself. But I'm not.

"Beetee," she says brokenly, "I'm so sorry. I'm just...sorry..."

Tears drip down her cheeks. I stand up and simply ask, "Why?"

"Beetee...I..." Lizah looks at her feet and puts the end of her braid in her mouth, chewing on it intently. After almost a minute she looks up, takes her braid out, and says, "I...think...I think I'm in love with you."

Just the words to make my heart stop beating.

"I don't know for certain...but...I just think...that maybe..."

"Lizah, I love you, too," I say, just as I realize it. It makes sense - even before the reaping, ever since I first met her...it just makes sense.

At first, this realization makes me happy. But then I fill with dread.

The Games.

One of us will die.

Lizah stares into my eyes, and I stare into hers, and I realize that the Hunger Games have played the worst trick possible on Lizah and me.

We're doomed.


	6. Chapter V

Lizah mutters an apology and rushes out of the room. The door slams shut with an echoing finality that actually makes me ache.

I lean forward on the bed, my hands covering my face. My mind starts screaming questions at me—most of them impossible to answer.

_What are you _doing_? One of you will be dead in under a week! How could you do this to yourself—more importantly, how could you do this to _her_? Why did you even start this when you knew it wouldn't end well? Why are you such an _idiot_?_

My thoughts are interrupted by a frantic knock at the door. My heart picks up speed—did Lizah come back? If so, is that good or bad?

"Beetee, we're all waiting for you to come to dinner!"

Julius, not Lizah. I relax, but only a little.

"I'll...I'll be right there. Give me a few minutes," I call back.

"Don't be too long!" Julius snaps. I can hear him storming off. Good riddance.

I take this time to change clothes and reattempt brushing my teeth. I don't feel sick anymore, so I just about manage it. I'm no longer staggering when I walk, but I take it easy anyway as I go to dinner.

Everyone's waiting for me. Wine and soup have already been served and I sit in the empty space left for me...opposite Lizah.

She's staring at her bowl, oblivious to anything being said by Julius, Violette, Bryony, or Felix—who must be Lizah's stylist. Tall and tanned, with jet black hair, a bright red suit, and gold eye makeup to match, he and Bryony discuss what they're going to make us wear the interviews with the Hunger Games host, Caesar Flickerman. Violette and Julius are discussing how to win over sponsors, surprisingly peacefully. The presence of Bryony and Felix probably has something to do with that—the mentor and escort presenting a united front so they don't look weak.

"Lizah'll win over sponsors easily—they like a pretty face," says Julius.

At this, Lizah makes a small disparaging noise, which is ignored, of course. She clenches her fist on the table; her knuckles are white. I can tell what she's thinking: she's sick of being seen as a pretty object to be played with. But we're all being played—pawns in some sick game of chess.

I don't want to look at her face, but I can't help it. The kiss in my room is still fresh on my mind...I wonder if it's fresh on hers.

_Do something other than stare_, I think wryly.

I take a few spoonfuls of potato and leek soup. It's lukewarm because I've left it for so long, but it's something. I don't throw it back up, so that's a good sign.

"Beetee, on the other hand, presents a challenge," says Julius nonchalantly, sipping his wine.

Something catches in my throat and I struggle not to choke on it.

_Thanks, Julius_, I think sarcastically.

"Sponsors don't go for smart, they go for what looks good," Julius continues, eyeing me doubtfully. He shakes his head slightly. "I think we'd be best to stick with Lizah as our best option."

I turn to see how Lizah reacts to this, but I knock over my wine glass. It shatters into a million tiny pieces at my feet, spilling its contents. I stare at it, transfixed...in a few days, it won't be wine that will be spilled…

I blink, rejoining reality. Hastily I apologize, trying to clean it up...even in the Capitol, I can't help myself from messing something up.

"Don't do that," Julius scolds to my mild surprise. "Let the Avox get it."

Almost as soon as the words are out of his mouth, a young woman appears. She can't be much older than Violette. Her cheekbones are clearly visible through her paper-like skin and her limbs are skeletal. Shakily, she kneels down to clear away the glass.

"Please, let me help you," I offer, but she shakes her head frantically. Her eyes are wide with fear and ringed with violet, as if she doesn't sleep enough...kind of like me.

Violette grabs my forearm suddenly; I turn to her and she says, "You aren't supposed to talk to them. She's a criminal and this is her punishment." Almost as an afterthought she adds, "She wouldn't reply if you talked to her, anyway."

"Why wouldn't she?" I ask, getting to my feet with her help.

"This isn't a subject for the dinner table," Julius interrupts hastily in an effort to change the subject. "Felix, Bryony, perhaps you can enlighten us a little on –

Violette holds up a commanding hand for silence. It shuts Julius up, anyway; he stares at her haughtily, offended by her abruptness.

"They cut her tongue out, Beetee," she tells me. For a change, she's trying to keep calm, but I can see her visibly shaking with rage. It disgusts her, all of it; she's not as different as I originally thought.

This information is like a punch in the stomach and I consider throwing up again. They kill some young people for sport and they enslave and mutilate others?

To the surprise of Violette, Julius, Felix, Bryony, and Lizah, I stand up. "I'm leaving."

"You can't –" Julius begins.

"Go, then," says Violette in a strangely quiet voice. I walk right past another group of Avoxes to go back to my room. I can't even look at them. Each one has been taken from their homes, their families, their very lives…

"Beetee," someone murmurs.

By the time I'm out of the room I realize it was Lizah who spoke. I don't turn back, though.

* * *

Back in my room, I start pacing up and down in front of my bed. My mind won't let me sleep anymore.

Four days. It only took four days for my entire world to fall apart.

It started with Julius pulling that strip of paper from the glass bowl...what would I be doing now if he had called someone else?

_Wallowing in your own misery, like always_, I think, rubbing my forehead in frustration, _with perhaps a side note of pity for the unlucky bastard who _was _called up. Probably not, though._

That would've been so much easier...I would have felt sorry for Lizah, but there would be no complications. She would've gone to the arena and that would've been it.

Now what can we do? We've admitted how we feel, but we're left on borrowed time. The clock is ticking away until the final hour and we're helpless. One of us will lose the other forever.

We have nothing.

_You have each other_, a voice in my head reminds me.

I know that. I just don't know if that'll be enough.


	7. Chapter VI

I'm still pacing madly when I hear a sharp rap on my door. Almost instinctively, I run my fingers through my hair, going over to the door and opening it.

But it isn't Lizah. It's Violette.

"Hi," I say, more than a little confused, but as is her way, Violette immediately cuts to the chase.

"Have you seen Lizah?" she asks.

"No," I mutter, looking at my feet. I wish I had...I need to talk to her. I don't know how much good it'll do, though.

"I'm looking for her," she adds unnecessarily.

"Where is she?"

Violette narrows her black eyes and purses her lips. "If I knew, I wouldn't be looking for her," she says coolly.

I keep my composure and lean against the doorframe. "Why not leave her alone? It's not like she can get out of this damned place."

Violette half-raises her hand almost as if to hit me for swearing at her, but she thinks better of it, dropping her arm. She clenches her fist instead; her knuckles turn white.

"Well, if you see her, tell her that Julius doesn't want her to keep wandering off," she says, her words practically a snarl.

"What d'you mean? When else has she wandered off?" I ask, distracted in spite of myself.

Violette sighs in exasperation, sending a wave of irritation through me; for once, _just once_, could someone act the same way for more than five minutes?

"Julius went into her room sometime last night and found it empty. He decided she must've wandered off –"

"Tell Julius," I say slowly, clenching my teeth, "to stay out of Lizah's room."

Violette raises her eyebrows. "I'll be glad to," she says coolly.

She turns on her heel to leave, but at the last second I grab her arm.

"I'll look for her," I say. "You go to bed."

_What the _hell _are you doing? I thought you were going to leave Lizah alone! _my brain screams at me, but I ignore it.

Violette yanks out of my grasp and crosses her arms, her eyebrows traveling farther and farther up her forehead. "If that's what you want," she says shortly, "go ahead. Be my guest."

She turns and leaves. I smack my own forehead.

_Damn it, Jarvis, why are you such an idiot? _I think, not for the first time.

I close my eyes. Somehow, just somehow, I think I have an idea as to where Lizah could've gone.

* * *

By the time I reach the roof, it's raining. Maybe it's been raining and I just didn't know it.

I was right; Lizah sits on the edge, her back to me. Her braid brushes the ground and she hugs her knees against her chest...again, as if she's trying to hold herself together.

There's a force field around the entire building; that I know for sure. For some reason, though, rain is able to pass through it effortlessly, soaking the entire roof and Lizah along with it. I cross the roof; in seconds, I'm dripping with rainwater as well.

I sit next to Lizah, who notices me but ignores the fact. "It's raining," I say, chastising myself immediately afterward.

"It's insulting my intelligence that you're constantly pointing out the obvious," she says coolly, looking out toward the brightly lit horizon, though it must be almost ten o'clock.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to," I say quietly.

"D'you ever wonder," she asks suddenly, her tone completely different, "how we're not able to get out, but rain is able to get _in_?"

"Actually, yes, I was," I admit, not looking at her.

"I like the rain," she adds almost as an afterthought. "It's so...clean. At least it is here. Back home…"

She doesn't finish her thought. She doesn't have to.

"I like the rain when it's raining, but when it's sunny, I like the sun. Not that it's ever sunny back home," Lizah continues. "I wish it could rain all the time, but that it was sunny at the same time. Then there'd be a rainbow stretching across the horizon."

"Nothing fake, either," I add quietly. "It'd have to be real."

"Yeah," she agrees. "Something special. Something real."

She looks at me. I close my eyes, not wanting to look at her for fear I'd run out of things to say, thus ruining the moment.

"When I was a little girl," Lizah says softly, "my dad always told me that good was white and evil was black, and that everyone was made of white and black. I always thought that people in the Capitol were pitch-black, and people in the districts were snowy white. I still can't believe how wrong I was. I thought...well, I thought that just because we were all suffering that everyone in the districts were good people. But obviously, I was wrong. Now...well, let's just say I learned the hard way that everyone is made of varying shades of gray."

I open my eyes and finally, I get the courage to look at her face. She looks calm, almost serene.

"You don't like yourself very much, do you?" she asks almost as an afterthought.

"To be honest," I begin slowly, "there isn't much to like. In case you haven't noticed, I'm kind of ordinary."

"Not to me," she murmurs, turning to look me in the eyes. "You're…"

"Always in the way?" I ask bitterly. "Unable to do anything right? Never able to find the right thing to say? Eternally causing problems for everyone else on the freaking planet?"

"No!" says Lizah, her eyes suddenly flashing. "I wish you wouldn't talk bad about yourself all the time! I was going to say that you're so much kinder than everyone else I've met, but you sure aren't kind to yourself!"

"No one else is kind to me; why should I treat myself any differently than everyone else does?"

Lizah looks at me tearfully. "I'm not kind to you?" she asks, her voice a broken whisper.

"No," I say immediately, regretting my choice of words, "that's not what I meant."

"That's what it sounded like," she murmurs, turning away from me.

Dammit, she's crying again. Why is she always crying? Is that just a girl thing?

"That's not what I meant," I repeat. "You're...well, you're very nice to me. To everyone."

Lizah tightens her arms around her knees and scoffs quietly. "_Nice _doesn't win the Hunger Games, Beetee."

"You actually want to win?"

"I want to go _home_," she says in that same quiet voice. "I hate it here. The only thing I like here is the rain."

I close my eyes, running my fingers through my hair. "Better you than me, I guess. To win, I mean. It's not like I have much to lose."

"What…" Lizah seems unable to find what to say, a first. "What about me?" she finally asks very softly.

I sigh. "Lizah, what's been said has been said. You know there's nothing we can do about it," I say evasively.

"But did you mean it? Do you really…?"

"Yes," I whisper. "Part of me wishes I didn't, because...well, no matter what happens, one of us loses the other. We can't win."

Lizah rests her head against my shoulder. "What if...what if we did?"

"Did what?"

"Win. Both of us."

The suggestion is so absurd for a moment all I can do is stare at her. "Lizah, it's the Hunger Games. One person wins. End of story."

"Would the Capitol rather have two winners...or no winner?"

"What are you _talking _about?" I ask incredulously, probably spoiling the moment. Oh, well. It's not like it could've lasted.

"It was just an idea," Lizah says defensively, pulling away from me a little.

"Lizah, you can't think like that."

"You mean I can't hope?" she asks heatedly.

"No," I say tiredly, letting her know that I'm not looking for a fight. I never am; fights just seem to find me. My parents, Keele. Et cetera, et cetera.

"I'm sorry," she mumbles, laying her head against my shoulder again. A lock of her hair brushes my neck. "Sometimes...I feel like…"

"You're losing your mind?" I ask wryly. "Me too."

"Well, that," she says slowly, "but also...sometimes I feel like running away."

I think for a minute. The thought had never occurred to me; sure, there were times when my parents' tyranny was enough for me to consider it, but only half-heartedly. Where could I have gone?

"Where could we go?" I ask, voicing my thought.

Lizah shrugs. "I dunno. Somewhere far, far away. Where no one would ever try to hurt us, or make us kill each other. It could just be you and me."

I really don't know how to respond to that.

Lizah sighs. "I want...these last few days...I want them to _mean _something," she says softly.

Our eyes meet, black and chocolate brown, desperation and love mirrored in both pairs. "Make them mean something," whispers Lizah. "Please."

"These might not be our last days," I murmur, cupping the back of her head. Her sweet-smelling hair is cool and wet from the rain. "They might be mine, but not yours."

"I'm not going to win, Beetee," Lizah says quietly, wrapping her arms around my neck and pulling herself closer to me. "You might, though. You have what it takes." She tangles her fingers in my hair. The only thing that takes me off guard is my lack of discomfort or haste.

"Not really," I tell her softly.

"Yes, you do," she contradicts, her voice a little louder. "You're smart. You're fast. You can win. I can't. But you can, and you will."

"Will I?" I ask gently, playing with her braid.

"If you love me, really, really love me, you will," whispers Lizah.

I could say so many different things right now. I can tell her that I'm not that smart—because I'm not. I'm no faster than the average person, either. The odds are most certainly _not _in my favor.

But for some reason I don't say any of these things. Instead I whisper, "I'll win, Lizah. I promise."

I don't know who kisses whom, but somehow we're kissing again. I shouldn't be doing this. I should leave her alone—for my good and for hers. But I don't stop and neither does she.

Lizah and I jump apart, however, when we hear someone clear their throat.

Violette stalks over to us, glaring. "It's almost ten thirty and you two have training tomorrow! What the _hell _are you two _doing _out here?"

"We're sorry –"

"Don't blame her, it was my idea," I say, cutting Lizah off. Her eyes widen. _What are you doing? _she asks mutely.

"I don't give a damn whose idea it was, just get inside!" says Violette.

I deliberately take Lizah's hand and we follow Violette back inside, where she orders us to put on dry clothes. Then we join her in the living room.

Violette collapses into an armchair and clenches the sides of her head with her hands, as if by crushing her skull she can pretend this isn't happening. Lizah and I sit side-by-side on the sofa. Violette waves one hand in dismissal. "Go to bed," she says.

Lizah and I rise, relieved, but Violette says, "No. Just her. Beetee, you stay."

Lizah looks at me in concern, but she doesn't question Violette, retreating to her room. I sit back down and Violette leans forward, resting her chin on her folded hands.

"Beetee, how many tributes go into the arena?" she asks quietly, her eyes burning into mine.

"Twenty-four," I reply coolly.

"And how many come back out?"

I falter, though I know the answer. "One," I say slowly.

Violette sits up abruptly and smacks her knee. "Exactly, Beetee. _Exactly_. So leave that girl alone."

"_That girl_," I say angrily, "is named Lizah. And I won't leave her alone because I—I don't want to!"

I was at the verge of saying _I love her_ but that's more than Violette needs.

"So you prefer watching her die? We all know Lizah is gone after the bloodbath; she's not firebrand material, and she refuses to cooperate with us."

"Lizah isn't going to die in the bloodbath!"

"Then she'll die somewhere else, and then what will you do?" Violette fires back.

"I'll win for the both of us," I say heatedly.

Violette lets out a bitter laugh. "Really? You _really _think you can watch a friend die and just move on? It's not as easy as it sounds."

"How would you know? You have no friends!"

Violette gets to her feet. "Let me tell you something, you cocky little bastard," she snarls. "I'm only looking out for you."

"Why aren't you looking out for your _own _tribute?"

"You're my tribute just as much as Lizah is. Bartemius couldn't tell you apart from that sofa even if we made signs and glued them to you. I'm stuck with both of you and if either of you has the slightest chance of winning, it's you."

I stop short. This is the first time anyone has ever said I had, I don't know, _potential_. Not much, but potential nonetheless.

However, it's her words about my district partner that sting me the most.

"I don't need your help," I say, shaking with rage—or fear. I'm not sure which. "I don't need anyone except –"

"Lizah," finishes Violette. I've fallen right into her trap.

"I love her," I tell Violette slowly without looking at her, "and no one but her. Please, try to help her win."

I feel guilty saying this. I promised Lizah _I'd _win. But she deserves to live much more than I do. She has so much more to live for. She'll move on from me. But I'd never get over her.

Violette sighs; the sound is almost sympathetic. "I'll try."

"Don't tell Lizah I said anything, though."

She sighs again, a little more irritably. "_Fine_. I'll keep your little secret, Beetee Jarvis. For now."

With that cliffhanger she goes to her own room. I retreat to mine as well, and I'm not surprised when I find Lizah there.

"What'd she say?" she asks. I close the door with a sigh.

"'Let me tell you something, you cocky little bastard,'" I say in a poor imitation of my hot-headed mentor. "'I'm only looking out for you, so you better stay away from that girl.'"

Lizah smiles fleetingly but grows solemn. "You're not...going to, are you?"

"No," I tell her softly. "I couldn't even if I tried."

We get into bed and she buries her face in my shoulder, seeming nervous. "I...I don't want to…"

"I know," I say gently.

"Not after him," she whispers. I hold her tighter.

"Of course not," I say. My words lull her to sleep, and eventually I fall asleep too.


	8. Chapter VII

Training is loud—much louder than I ever imagined. The air is pierced frequently with the grunts and groans of tributes as the act out how they're going to commit mass murder. Swords clash; metal scrapes sharply against metal; arrows thud dully as the sink into the grotesquely humanlike targets, twanging as they vibrate with the force of the shot.

I stay at the back, making it my goal to avoid as many people as possible. I hover between stations, unsure of what I should do. Lizah is on the opposite side of the room at the station designed to test tributes on their knowledge of poisonous plants. I want to talk to her, or at least join her so I'm less uncomfortable, but the tributes in between us create a barrier of hostility. Besides, people are watching, and I don't want them knowing—or even suspecting—anything.

I pretend to be examining a set of knives that sit untouched on the rack, partially hidden in shadow. I don't want to touch them, but I must have _something _to defend myself with. Even if the mere thought of someone having their jugular slit open with something like this sends an icy chill up my spine and bile bubbling into the back of my throat. Soon, the images in my head will be real—but which will be worse? I already know the answer, of course. At least in my imagination I can _choose_ what horrific things I see.

Finally, I bite the proverbial bullet and pick up a knife, which I soon realize is more like a short sword; the blade itself is at least seventeen inches long, flat and broad with a razor edge. I don't dare stroke the edge with a careful finger like I saw some of the Career tributes do. When they pick up a weapon, they _feel_ its power, so it almost becomes like an extension of them. They check the weight, the best poise, the best way to hold it so as to cut down your opponent in one swift move... this is what will make them so deadly. Merciless killers.

When I pick up a weapon, it's more like a Labrador that's randomly picked up a stick its master has thrown for it. The sad part is that it's picked up the wrong stick.

But I have to try.

I approach an unused mannequin, designed to take knife and sword wounds. For once in my life, luck is on my side and no one is paying any attention of any kind to me. Gulping and pushing my glasses back onto my face just before they slide off the tip of my nose, I raise the knife to slice off the mannequin's head.

But my body isn't strong enough to hold it there. It quickly becomes too heavy for me, sending my arm and the knife crashing down onto the mannequin, taking the rest of me with it. The knife does no real damage—a tiny, insignificant scratch which could be mistaken for a paper cut appears on the mannequin's shoulder. I look up wearily, to see the other tributes standing around, completely silent. All of them are staring at me. I can see Lizah at the back, eyes wide with alarm.

The boy from 1—Golden—swings the mace he had been practicing with up and over his head, so it is resting on his shoulders.

"Aren't you at least going to buy that mannequin _dinner_ first, Three?" he laughs, followed quickly by his disciples—or the other tributes, if you prefer.

I look down quickly, doing a double take when I realize the compromising position crashing down on top of a mannequin has left me in. Red-faced, I scramble to my feet, so that I can look at him face to face. Or, face to torso—whichever you prefer. Either way, I'm not very impressive looking compared to Golden.

In the knowledge that not a shred of dignity remains on my person, I pull the mannequin upright again. Many of the tributes have been called back to their stations by the trainers, or because they've realized that most of the action is now over. I glance over at Lizah again—she's moved away from her previous station and is busy feigning interest in how to tie knots in ropes. I think she's probably moved closer simply to keep a careful eye on me, not without reason. Golden and a few others remain nearby, though. Eventually, they also turn to leave.

"Asshole," I mutter under my breath, glaring at Golden's turned back.

This is unwise on my part.

Golden turns on his heel to face me once more. If looks could kill, he'd be on trial for murdering an entire room full of people.

"_What_ did you just call me?" he asks darkly. His voice is low, but at the same time loud enough for everyone to hear. Again, the room is silent—but no one is laughing now. The trainers are approaching, but they're not moving fast enough for my liking. My voice is caught in my throat—I couldn't answer even if I _had _an answer that _wouldn't _get me killed. Enraged at my lack of a verbal answer, Golden raises the mace to cave in my skull. Lizah covers her eyes, unable to watch. I wish I could join her in that, but my arms are frozen by my sides.

"Hey!"

There is no impact. I don't collapse to the floor, head bloodied, broken and never to stir again. One of the trainers has made it over and is holding him back—the words "in the nick of time" spring firmly to mind.

"Save it for the arena," the trainer scorns. Golden steps away from her, almost as if he feels disgusted by her presence.

"Fine," he huffs. The arrogance of the Careers is astounding. He lowers the mace, nonetheless. Instead, he points a warning finger directly at me. "You'd better watch your back, Three. I'll be the one to take you down if it's the last thing I do."

I say nothing. What is there to be said?

"See you in the arena." He turns away and goes back to turning a mannequin into mess.

I walk away, back to the rack where I found the stupid sword in the first place, dump it there and return to watching from afar, at the stations no one is paying any attention to.

Four days can change your life, as it turns out. But one word can seal your fate for good. Mine's just signed a warrant for my own execution.


	9. Chapter VIII

The meal break is called soon after my incident with Golden. Lizah finds me quickly and pulls me next to her in line, igniting some protests from the ten or so people behind her. Lizah huffs and takes me with her to the very back of the line, which doesn't upset me in the slightest; my stomach is in knots and the overpowering smell of food is revolting.

"It's scary how good you are at making enemies, Beetee," she whispers.

It's hardly necessary to speak so quietly. The cafeteria is even noisier than the one at school back in District 3. The only person who might be eavesdropping is the small, dark-skinned girl directly in front of us, but I doubt she's listening. Nevertheless, I lower my voice as well and say, "I don't_ try_ to get on people's bad sides. I usually end up there by default."

Lizah sighs. "I hate to burst your bubble, but calling someone an asshole is not the proper way to become their friend."

I snort at the thought of being friends with Golden.

"Or ally," she continues in an even quieter voice. "And allies are what's going to keep you alive once we get in the arena."

"Us," I correct softly, daring to take her hand and squeeze her fingers briefly before letting go. She sighs again but doesn't comment.

"Have you ever heard the saying, 'Make love, not war'?"

I nod.

"Please take it to heart," she says.

I smile ironically. "Alright, then. I'll get Golden flowers and a wedding ring and we'll announce our engagement tomorrow. Savvy?"

"Give the sarcasm a rest," Lizah says, narrowing her eyes in distaste. "I'm just asking you to please stop antagonizing people."

"What?!" Lizah shushes me and in a quieter voice I tell her, "I don't antagonize people!"

"Maybe not _intentionally_," she allows.

"Name one person I've antagonized," I insist.

"Violette, Julius, Golden, Keele, your parents, Mila—"

"I said one person," I interrupt with a groan. "Look, it's not like I _enjoy_ having two people that now want my head on a silver platter."

"_Two_?" Lizah's voice rises in alarm.

"Yes. Golden and the mannequin's husband."

"Beetee, that's not funny!" she says, hitting my shoulder.

"I'm just saying that—"

"Hey, lovebirds?" says a horribly familiar voice from behind Lizah and me. Golden. "Could you kindly quit flirting and keep moving? You're holding up the line."

I clench my hands into fists but Lizah puts her hand on my wrist in warning. She lets go before turning to Golden. I can't read her expression, and this frightens me; Lizah being Lizah, she could do just about anything.

"We aren't lovebirds," she says dryly to Golden. "I hardly know him. And as for us holding up the line, a simple, 'May you please move?' would have sufficed. But I'm sorry. I realize you must be starving considering how little food you all get in District One."

I gape at her; so do the rest of the Careers. If that's not antagonizing, I don't know what is. Certainly calling Golden an asshole under my breath wasn't as bad as _that_.

I expect Golden to attack Lizah like he tried to attack me. He's unarmed now, but it isn't hard to imagine him snapping her in half like a toothpick with his bare hands while I stand powerless, unable to protect her. But to my surprise and utter disgust he reaches out and strokes her hair, twirling the end of her dark braid around his thumb. "You know, you're awful pretty for someone from Three," he says. "So pretty it's almost too bad you'll be dead soon." He flashes an evil grin back to his cohorts. "Almost." He moves his hand over her shoulder and down her arm, resting it on her hip. Lizah irritably slaps it away.

"Don't touch me," she snaps. Golden's grin gets wider.

"And feisty, too," he says. He takes a step in her direction and puts his hands on her waist, pulling her toward him. "I like feisty."

I grit my teeth and Golden's eyes meet mine. He looks smug. I suddenly realize he must know how I feel about her and is doing this to spite me, though how he could know is anyone's guess. Lizah realizes this too and shoves him away, her chocolate brown eyes narrowed in hatred. "Please. The only difference between you and a bucket of crap is the bucket," she says coldly.

I'm too shocked and terrified to laugh. Golden scoffs and rolls his eyes before his face suddenly lights up with comprehension. "I know why you don't like me."

"Why? Because you're a jerk?"

_Lizah, I think that's enough; you're overdoing it_, I think desperately.

Golden grins again and shakes his head, unfazed. "No. Because you're _his_, aren't you?" He points at me; to my disdain, a blush heats my face and I hurriedly look away, trying not to panic.

"No," Lizah snorts in disdain, keeping her composure, unlike me. "I'm not 'his,' whatever _that_ entails."

"Say, Three," says Golden, directing his words at me and ignoring Lizah's comment, "where'd you get the cash?"

"Cash?" I repeat blankly. I'm probably setting myself up for a joke in my own expense, but what else is new? "What are you talking about?"

"You know, to pay her off." His nasty grin gets wider. "You couldn't possibly get with that sexy piece of ass for _free_. I just wanna know how much you're paying her so I could maybe get her next!"

"Ew!" shrieks the girl from 2, Tania. "You really want _Three's_ sloppy seconds?"

They all begin holing with laughter. I look at Lizah to see her reaction. I expect disgust, disdain, anger—but not what I actually see.

Lizah looks as if she's frozen with terror. I tentatively put a hand on her shoulder but she suddenly drops to her knees with a moan. "No," she whispers.

"Lizah?" I ask, a little frightened.

"What's her problem?" Golden asks, annoyed. "Damn, girl, it was just a _joke_. No need to cry about it."

Lizah ignores us both. She starts panting and puts her hands over her ears, her breaths turning to gasps. "No!" she cries.

"Lizah, what's wrong?" I ask, alarmed.

"Leave her alone, Three, can't you see she's just looking for attention?" Golden snaps. "Attention whore, that's what she is."

I ignore him and kneel next to Lizah, shaking her shoulders. "Lizah, snap out of it," I say. "Lizah."

"No!" Lizah cries again. "No, please, no! Please, don't! _Don't!_ I'll do anything else, please, _please!_"

I choke back vomit and tears. Golden's cruel and thoughtless words must have triggered some kind of flashback. Lizah thinks she's with Remus Freeman again. I shake her harder. "Lizah, you're okay! _Snap out of it!_"

"Don't! Dear God, stop! Please stop, you're hurting me, _you're hurting me!_"

Everyone's looking at us—Lizah's in the fetal position and is still screaming and I'm on my knees trying hopelessly to rouse her—but for once, I don't care. I put my hands under her knees and shoulders and with less effort than I thought I'd need I pick her up and take her out of the room, ignoring everyone's shameless stares. Most of the Careers are still laughing. "Crazy bitch!" says Golden. I clench my jaw. _Not worth it_, I tell myself. _Pick your battles, Jarvis._

I carry Lizah down the hall and put her down in the corner, shaking her again and calling her name between each of her heart-wrenching cries.

"Lizah! Lizah, you're okay! You're with me. It's just me—Beetee. I'm not going to hurt you! Please, Lizah, snap out of it!"

I hear footsteps coming this way. The dark-skinned girl I saw earlier who must be from District 11 kneels next to me. "Go away," I snap.

"Is she okay?" the girl asks, ignoring my command.

"What do you think?" I continue my fruitless attempts to rouse Lizah, who continues pleading with the Head Peacekeeper who isn't here to stop hurting her.

"Lizah?" the girl asks. "Lizah, please, we're your friends. Me and Beetee want to help you. Please let us."

After some more coaxing from the girl from 11 and me Lizah's cries die down and I take her in my arms. Hers find their way around my neck and I rise, picking her up again. She doesn't weight very much and is incapable of walking. The girl from 11 also stands up and touches Lizah's hair; Lizah shudders and holds on even tighter to me.

"Thanks," I tell the girl, less irritated now that Lizah's in less distress. Besides, this girl helped her. How can I hold a grudge against her when she helped the girl I love?

"You're welcome," she says, smiling. "My name's Elli, by the way."

"Well, thank you, Elli," I correct. "You...you didn't have to help her. Us."

"Yes, I did," Elli says solemnly. "She needed help, so I helped her. She would've done the same for me."

Tears unexpectedly sting my eyes. "Yes," I whisper, "she would have."

* * *

I bring Lizah back to District 3's compartment in the Training Center. Violette sees us and gasps.

"What the hell?" she shouts. "What happened to her?"

"Fainting spell," I lie. "Training overwhelmed her, I guess."

Without waiting for a response I take Lizah to her room. I put her on her bed and wipe her face with a cold washcloth, softly murmuring those condolences she needs to hear. Finally, she stops shaking and leans against me, leaning her head against my chest. Then she starts to cry.

"I'm s-s-sorry," she weeps. "I m-made you l-look like an i-idiot!"

I try to smile. "To be honest, the feeling isn't entirely new to me."

Lizah lets out a watery laugh but then sobers and holds me closer. "If you only knew how...how horrible that was, b-being with h-him like that," she murmurs shakily.

"It's okay, Lizah," I say, kissing the top of her head. "It's over and done."

"I only did what I had to do," she whispers.

"I know," I murmur, holding her tighter. "I know."

She takes off her shoes and gets under the blanket. I shyly kiss the remaining tears from her eyelids. "Try to sleep," I tell her softly.

"You won't leave me?"

A distant memory stirs in the back of my mind. "Of course I won't," I tell her, lying beside her. "Of course I won't."

This seems to comfort Lizah and she leans into me, falling asleep almost instantly. I wasn't tired when I was in training, but now I'm exhausted. My eyes close and I fall asleep with the salty taste of Lizah's tears on my lips.

* * *

_I am thirteen years old. I toss in turn in bed, every part of my body aching. Lloys Etheridge—who's three grades above me—beat me savagely after school today. Even thought it's almost eight hours later I still feel like I was hit by a train. I hardly know why Lloys beat me up in the first place. It's not like I _meant_ to make his little sister Ashby—who's in my grade—cry. I really didn't. If I were _trying_ to make her cry, that would've justified a beating by her older brother. Lloys and Ashby's sister, Mackalee, was reaped for this year's Hunger Games. When I told Ashby at lunch that it might as well have been Mackalee because it had to be _someone_, and that she was lucky to have gotten rid of her sister—because Lord knows I can't stand mine—I was trying to cheer her up by being funny. I thought girls liked funny guys. But instead Ashby ran off crying and I ended up looking like a jerk. And then Ashby told her brother Lloys what I said. The rest is history._

_A storm rages overhead. Thunder cracks, roars, and rumbles. Lightning flashes. I put my pillow over my head in a futile attempt to drown out the sound. I'm almost asleep when I feel something touch my arm. I jump, prepared to ward off an attacker—but it's only Mila. I sigh in relief but then stare in confusion._

"_Why are you here?" I ask sleepily._

"_I'm scared," Mila whispers; her voice is barely audible._

_Irritation sets in. "And you woke me up because...?"_

"_I'm scared," she repeats, getting under my blanket and curling up next to me. "Can I sleep in here with you?"_

"_Why?"_

"_I'm scared, Beetee," she says again. "Please? Lemme stay here so you can protect me."_

"_How could I protect you? I got my ass handed to me by a sixteen-year-old."_

"_You can protect me 'cause you're my big brother," she says._

_I sigh. "Fine. Just go to sleep, kid."_

_Mila nods and wraps her arms around me, closing her eyes obediently. I wrap my arms around her as well and my eyes shut again._

"_Beetee?" she murmurs._

"_Yeah?"_

"_You won't leave me, right?" _

" _'Course not," I mumble, halfway asleep already._

"_Never ever?"_

"_Sure."_

"_Promise?"_

"_Mm-hm."_

_I think she falls asleep but then she says my name again._

"_What?" I mutter, opening my eyes._

"_I love you."_

_I remember telling Ashby that I couldn't stand my sister. But I guess she isn't that bad._

"_Love you too, kid," I murmur. The rain keeps beating on the roof, but I hardly notice it as I drift to sleep._

* * *

Lizah and I are awakened quite abruptly by Violette flicking on the lights and shouting, "Are you two going to eat or what?"

"We are," I reply irritably, sitting up. "Give us a minute."

She nods and leaves, grumbling. Lizah reaches out and her soft fingers touch my cheek. "Beetee, you're crying," she says quietly.

"What?" I touch my face and my fingers come back slick with tears. I wipe them away with my shirtsleeve and my heart drops to my stomach.

Maybe it's because we're technically made of the exact same pieces—the exact same kind of genetic material formed into two separate zygotes almost ten years apart. Maybe I'm psychic. Maybe I'm just paranoid. But something tells me that my kid sister is in some kind of danger.

"Beetee?" Lizah asks. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I mutter. "I'm fine."

_But why can't I shake the feeling that Mila isn't?_

* * *

Dinner is a very subdued affair. The two stylists, Julius, and Violette all stare pointedly at Lizah, but she pretends not to notice as she rearranges her food on her plate. Julius chastises her for this by telling her that playing with her food isn't ladylike, but she ignores him, to his obvious disdain. I'm not much hungrier, given how terribly today has gone anyway, but what disturbs me most is the stranger, sixth-sense, ESP, something-out-of-a-poorly-written-novel feeling tat my sister is in trouble somehow.

I'm being completely ridiculous, of course. First of all, there is no such thing as ESP. None. Nada. Zip. Second, Mila is with our—or _her_, I should say, since I disowned them—parents, who love her beyond reason. The Capitol occasionally executes people's family members as punishments, but neither I nor my parents have done anything wrong, as far as I know, anyway. So Mila's in no danger. Besides, when I make it to the final eight—because _not _making it isn't an option if I'm to assure Lizah's victory—she'll probably be one of the first people to be interviewed about me. Probably one of the _only _people, seeing as I have no friends except for the girl sitting to my right who is in the same boat as I am. The Capitol can't have Mila killed because if they kill her, they'll have no one to interview about me. Not that Mila knows me anyway.

So Mila's safe. End of story.

Besides, why do I care? It's not like she gives a damn about _me_. I can remember her parting words:

"_I hope you die. I hope someone guts you like a fish! I hope you feel all that pain and realize that you're stupid and nobody likes you! I wish you were never born!"_

Why bother looking out for her anymore? I won't lie and say that I've been an ideal brother, but I haven't been awful to her. I've treated her reasonably well, I suppose. It's not my fault she's nothing but a brat.

Eventually, Julius's disapproving stare turns to me, so to appease him I pick up my fork and pretend to eat, but like Lizah, I end up just rearranging my food on my plate. This earns me a finger-wagging, who then proceeds to inform me of my atrocious manners and give me an enormous list of ways I can improve myself. I clench my teeth, fighting to control my temper; I seem to have a problem with that as of late. Lizah's hand finds mine under the table and she squeezes my fingers in reassurance. Julius looks at her, then at me, and his expression turns smug.

"_Oh,_" he drawls.

"'Oh,' what?" asks Violette.

"Them," Julius replies simply, gesturing to Lizah and me.

Lizah stiffens and averts her eyes. "What about us?" I ask irritably, though I'm reeling. He can't know, right?

"Well, isn't it obvious?" Julius says to Violette, ignoring me.

"No," she says, annoyed.

"Beetee and Lizah!" he exclaims.

"What about them?" Violette demands. "They're tributes? They're short? They have issues? _What?_"

I'm insulted, and from her expression, I think Lizah is too, but we can't really deny anything, so we stay silent.

"Well, isn't it obvious?" Julius repeats. "Beetee and Lizah, they're sweet on each other!" He smiles at us.

I drop the fork I was prodding my meal with in alarm. I try to deny his claim in a calm, measured voice, but my throat has constricted and I can't speak.

"We aren't, we really aren't!" Lizah shrieks; the nature of her denial makes it sound like a confession.

Julius wags his finger at us again, still grinning. "I don't believe it for a second. I'm very intuitive when it comes to these things. Besides, I'm very smart."

"Could've fooled me," I mutter. Julius scowls before brightening again.

"This is _fabulous_," he says happily. He clasps his hands together and rises from his chair, strolling over to Lizah and me and kneeling between us. "I knew it would be more than easy to get Lizah sponsors," he says, touching her face. "As I said, they love a pretty face. But we were so unsure as to what we were going to do with Beetee. He's just so...well, he's kind of a nerd. I mean, he's smart, but sponsors don't give a hoot about smarts. But who _wouldn't _want to sponsor two teenagers deeply in love? On levels of entertainment, the only thing higher than violence is romance. I mean, what could be more tragic than a pair of star-crossed lovers thrown into the arena? We'll have sponsors coming out of our ears—"

"No."

Julius has stood and was pacing when my voice breaks him out of his reverie. He looks at me as if surprised. "No?" he repeats.

"No," I reiterate. "I'm not going to let your exploit us."

"_Exploit _you?" he asks, shocked. "I'm not exploiting either of you; I'm helping you get sponsors—"

"Yes, but it doesn't matter how many sponsors we have; only one tribute can win, so either way, Lizah and I lose. _You_, however, gain no matter if Lizah and I both die in the bloodbath. You'd make a fortune off of selling the story of the star-crossed lovers of District Three, now wouldn't you?"

"Well, yes," he says offhandedly, "but this would help the two of you as well. It'd keep you both alive if you're, say, starving in a forest and a sponsor sends you food—"

"Assuming, of course, we aren't already dead," I counter. I'm on my feet as well, facing him. "This is all presumption. The only way Lizah and I could get anything out of this is if there was some kind of rule change allowing for two victors, and I don't see that happening any time soon. What we have is something special and I won't let you use it for your own personal gain; you can say that you're doing this for us as much as you want, but as I've already said, there can only be one winner."

Lizah nods vehemently and adds, "You're treating this like it's a game, and Beetee and I are both pawns. I have news for you: we aren't. At the very least, one of us is going to die in that arena and at the most, we're both goners, so exploiting our love for the sake of sponsorship is only going to help _you_, and we're not doing it."

Julius looks at Violette, aghast. "Help me out here, Violette. Make them see reason."

"For once, I think they already are," she replies indifferently, most of her attention on her meal. "The only person who can gain from this scenario is you; if either dies early on by means a sponsor can't prevent—like, I don't know, murder?—we're back at square one. It'd be easier to develop separate angles in the instance of either's death."

He huffs and turns to Bryony and Felix for help, but Felix is entirely consumed with his dinner and Bryony only says, "There's only so much you can force a tribute to do, Julius," before turning her attention back to her salad. Finally recognizing his defeat, Julius groans—I snicker because he sounds like my sister—and stomps off. With him gone, I see no one who would object to my leaving as well, so I retreat back to my own room; Lizah follows me example, though she goes to her own room to bathe before going to bed.

I decide to do the same; despite the nap I took earlier, the weight of the day is still heavy upon my shoulders. For the longest time, I do nothing but soak in the warm water, my eyes closed.

Am I doing the right thing by keeping my love from Lizah a secret? Would exploitation really be the best thing for her? As much as I hate to admit it, it _would _get us sponsors. But Lizah is more than capable of getting sponsors on her own—not only is she beautiful, she's intelligent as well. The only thing I can see going against her is how unwilling she is to kill another human being—but if all goes as planned, I'll be doing most of that for her. After I've somehow eliminated most—if not all—of the other tributes, I'll have to find some way to die myself. I redirect myself to keep from lingering on a few of the more gruesome possibilities. My heart tells me that exploiting the love between Lizah and me is simply wrong, but my head insists that it would help her gain even more sponsors, which in turn could keep her alive in the instance that I am unable to do so. I eventually dry off and dress. I guess this isn't really my decision—she's going to be the victor, not me.

I find her room soon enough and knock on the door; upon affirming that I'm not Julius, Lizah invites me in.

She sits at the table in front of the mirror wearing the pajamas allotted to her and a silk bathrobe cinched at the waist. Her dark hair is unbound and shines with moisture; she seems to be counting the times she tugs her hairbrush through it. It occurs to me suddenly that I've never seen her hair down; even during the chariot rides, her stylist had pulled it up. It drapes in thick, wavy layers to her waist; I wonder idly when the last time she cut it was.

"Hi," she says before mouthing, "Ninety-six, ninety-seven..."

"When was the last time you cut your hair?" I ask, sitting on the bed.

Lizah reaches one hundred and turns to me, smiling. "When was the last time _you _cut _yours_?" she counters with a smile, moving to sit next to me and brush a piece of my hair away from my forehead. Then she sighs and looks at her lap. "Beetee," she says, "we're doing the right thing, right? Not letting Julius exploit us for sponsors?"

I sigh and grasp her hands in both of mine, resting my head on her shoulder. Hers leans against my temple. I keep my eyes on our entwined hands; my words come out in a low breath. "I sure hope so."


End file.
